My black mood polarizes. Plodding
homeward, clutching dinky parcels
of despair, I spy our good neighbor,
cumbrous as a skating bear, sploshing
in her beaver coat over mud
and slush on a rutted gravel side road.
A flicker of her geniality

burdens my bleakness: she’d never
surrender to black. She supposes I’ll stop
and wait but distance lures an invidious
urge to send me heeling like a timorous
fox bent on anonymity. Risking
glassy sidewalks I scurry off
to my cheerless lair.

Sheltered, I am again a sheep, ashamed
as I watch her drift past my kitchen window,
head bent low

REMEMBERING THE CHERRY TREES

They basked in each blossoming as buds swelled
into succulence, one more bounteous blessing
to embellish their archives of joy:
every year had been a good year.

Feet trailing the edge of the balcony
they plucked cerise delights
surrendering the choicest to each other
and amazed their offspring
with immutable appetites for berries
and togetherness.

Twilight found them chatting softly
by the trees, discussing tinge of leaves,
tangle of branches. Gazes fastened
on seasonal changes, they ignored their own
flagging steps and whitening hair, thriving
as trees thrive, in quiet harmony.

The trees mourn their old friends now: ants tread
aphid trails up dry bark, fungus corrodes branches,
boughs are barren. It’s as if they gave up
and their spirits slipped away, to join Mom and Dad.

TEACHER

As I recall, he was a lanky man,
and seemed so old to wispy teenage eyes:
he must have counted fifty years by then.
To painter Norman Rockwell he’d have been
a likely model for his homely oils.
Though reachable and kind, he was akin
to folks whose earthly paths are set on one
predominating goal. He’d set pupils
to their tasks, then would poise before the class
and withdraw -- to symbolically diffuse
with the spirit of his mesmerizing muse.
He never fussed at our artistic ware,
if good or bad, but swelled impressive works
before our eyes with unassuming care.

My admiration was immense; I craved
to be just half as good as he. But rather
not to risk my modest fuel, I studied his.
He didn’t seem to mind, didn’t even know
I stood and gazed with such intent, or maybe
that’s not so: when I left school, he honored me
with one small gift of palette warm in hues,
and forms obscured: a Texas outdoor scene
in softened light, like deserts in a dream.

I cherished that sweet gift for many years
but then, like lesser baggage of my youth,
in time, somewhere, it vanished just the same.
However loved, some things had to be chucked
along the way -- while forging my own fame.

AN INCIDENT AT AN EVENT IN GORICHKO

(For Tomaž Kržišnik)

Sketchbook in hand you wandered
unassuming, so to speak,
into this antediluvian milieu.
No city folk, these. Norman Rockwell
rural. A wholesome lot, friendly, open.
Our host, the Master of Ceremonies,
unknown to you, a chummy, chattering
caricature, hangs over your shoulder,
his tipsy geniality yearning
to embrace the universe.

MODERN MUSIC

The cool cloak of evening air
is as cleansing as the arrangements
inside the hall are crass, though the ancient
wooden archway diminishes
the dissonance. Alone on concrete steps,
I wait for the concert to end.

LAST RESPECTS

Church bells chime farewell to one
of my abundant, antiquated acquaintances:
to many a respected teacher, to me a mere
chit-chat on the street. To the tolling of the bells
I count numerous heads among the grievers
as white as the snow around us. Ten years
will terminate a third, perhaps; in twenty,
half will bow to the final knell. Odds has me
in the first group.

The wind is cold. Hymns rasped by an all-widow
choir enliven the priest’s droned litany.
Defunct microphone deletes every few words.
Youngsters giggle. A flash of recall projects
my family, young in the land of jingle bells
(remote, oh, so remote). Sisters and I sprawled
on tattered sofa, mother in her armchair.
We writhed in mirth; lunch smoldered in the oven.
Amusement innocent of catastrophe

or war mocks death easily. Offbeat jokes
of our own demise produced delighted
hee-haws. Mom wanted her ashes tossed
to the wind from hills behind El Paso.
Each bit, she said, would be an angel going home.
Our laughter tinkled like bells in the wind.
Now, to fend off brewing chortles,
I count the years between birth and death
on nearby gravestones, and feel life fleeting.

GETAWAY

If only I could find an obscure hole --
not the pit where eulogies are offered
and everyone turns away forever --
no, just a simple retreat, a human-
sized mole’s nest, oxygen-filled passages
to wend my way along my chosen path,
meeting only an occasional worm.
No philosophy, and no demanding.

A place to circumvent rocks and roughs
at my own pace, without panic or undue
stress. Where, if I plod, no one complains.
Where no pushing, shoving or clamoring
for my attention exists. Where caverns
among roots would be the only detours,
house foundations the only deceptions
to confound my modest meandering.

YOUNG LADY

Listen! Youth was magic.
Every temptation excitement:
the Broadway lights, the nightclubs,
the clothes, the men.

Charming the men was rapture,
long affairs avoided,
commitment rejected.

Daydreams fixed on nights,
new frock, red lips,
oh, you’d strut your stuff!
And the men you met:
philanderers all.
You spurned curiosity;
no concern of yours
whether they were committed
or would it last forever.

So many jazzy dates awaited
-- and so much you would not share.

You gave no thought to other
dimensions: depleted wives,
children begging: »Where’s Daddy?«
or if love played a part.

As you watch the young lady
sally through the male quarters,
what makes you think youth
is different now?